


Your City Gave Me Asthma.

by goopclaws



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Comfort/Angst, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Leaving Home, Light Petting, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Nicknames, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pet Names, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romance, Sad, Sad Wilbur Soot, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Song Lyrics, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Touch-Starved, Touching, Tragic Romance, Unrequited Love, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27193102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goopclaws/pseuds/goopclaws
Summary: Infinity symbols would round his smile lines, the shape of some distorted wobble lining his forearms, Wilbur began to hum, a bad habit of his, whenever he would admire something, gloomily, pitches of melodic rumbles would grim from his throat. Some song he’d made up on his guitar one day, one only remembered by his bed stricken man’s smile, his head resting on Wilbur’s shoulder as he played the only tune that he could think in such a flustered haze. His counterpart would billow a laugh into the early dawn morning, one that set Wilbur’s stomach ablaze.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77





	Your City Gave Me Asthma.

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction includes romantic scenes with the personas (more specifically YouTube/Twitch personas) of real people. If this makes you uncomfortable or you disagree with it, please do not read this, and defiantly do not comment anything discouraging my use of themes with the personas of JSchlatt and Wilbur Soot on YouTube/Twitch in my writing.
> 
> Please do not spread this 'fic anywhere, especially on social media where the creators featured could see, and do not inform them of this 'fic's existence, as I do not wish to make anyone uncomfortable. If you feel the need to tell me how disgusting I am for writing this, you can if you really want to, but just know, I don't encourage anyone to write similar to what I do, and I don't like that I write things like this either. I am neurodivergent, and hyperfixated on Schlattbur, and the only way I can express this is to write fanfiction, I am anonymous and only go by the alias goop/goopclaws for a reason. Just know, if you do comment something discouraging me, it's something I've already told myself beforehand, and I appreciate your concern for the creators involved.
> 
> Thank you!

_You know it takes a lot to move me._  
_So if you figure it out, tell me._

Wilbur had lied awake, slowly taking in gentle air, soft air that brought his chest to a standby. Maybe if he breathed harder his chest would smooth. He looked over to the man hugging his shoulders with a rough smile, passing ghosts of fingers over the facial hair that haunted his sleeping face. What a gentle sleeping face, he had noted, one lathered in trust and love. He grimaced now, ever so slightly. Why should someone trust him? Love him? He let a gentle sigh pass over his lips, running calloused hands through thick silk brunette, his eyes unreadable to the world. Though, all the same, no one but the man latching onto him would ever wish to take a gander inside the rotting insurrection of his mind. Even so, why should he want a look into the corpse of his brain, the horror of his mind, the grossity of it all.

He could hear slow breaths, breaths so slow they turned him sick. Why should he be trusted like this? Surely the world thought him a villain? A menace? A complete wanker? He tried to meet the slow of the man’s breath, but he never could, he still remained breathless, in the clammy air of his and the man’s flat in the just as murky city they were burrowed into. 

Slowly, he sat up once more, slowly, looking down at the man sleeping in a slumber of peace and tranquil beside him, ‘brows furrowed, and stomach coiled into something he wished to ignore. He let his fingers wander, coursing upside his throat, over the round of his nose, the plush of his cheeks, the hair vining up his jawlines, his collarbones, his smile lines, him.

_I trace figures on your smile lines._  
_Work a formula to cure me._

Infinity symbols would round his smile lines, the shape of some distorted wobble lining his forearms, Wilbur began to hum, a bad habit of his, whenever he would admire something, gloomily, pitches of melodic rumbles would grim from his throat. Some song he’d made up on his guitar one day, one only remembered by his bed stricken man’s smile, his head resting on Wilbur’s shoulder as he played the only tune that he could think in such a flustered haze. His counterpart would billow a laugh into the early dawn morning, one that set Wilbur’s stomach ablaze. 

Wilbur would rustle out from under the sheets, from his grasp, the loss of touch and adoration more painful than it had been before, when they were mended, the loss of him blistering his skin and leaving him shaken. He reached for the suitcase topped inside their closet, hesitantly, reluctantly, a look unreadable to mankind still to scower his face dirty. The room was dim, all but for the subtle rays of dawn leaking in through their closed, chipped and tattered by their wallowing age, blind shutters. He could hear him shift in his drowse, he would flinch every so.

Birds would begin to chirp soon, dew would begin to glimmer against the morning light, Wilbur would begin to wither soon. Into a shriveled wine rose that would no longer greet even a sliver of the daylight, too scared of the warmth it brought, terrified of the mending it could do, what it could fix. Wilbur, like a shriveled wine rose, hadn't wanted to be fixed, not if it left a burden on his sun, on his lovely sun that worked too hard now-a-days.

_And I'm lonely._  
_There I said it._

Wilbur hadn't many friends, hadn't much of a home, but he had his man with mutton chops and a thickly accented laugh, it would only sore his heart to say he wouldn't much longer. Wilbur was not much of a lover, not a worth while one, one who was absent from bed until late hours, one who was quiet and observant only during the worst times to be. He was an entertainer, sure, he had enough money to keep stable and a little more, sure, he had a rich voice, sure, but none of that was what he wanted, he wanted Wilbur, and Wilbur would never understand that. He would bask in the late moonshine, lips parted and drool trickling down his lip, what should be humorous or embarrassment instead fond. His existence was fond, and Wilbur presumed he deserved much better than an English boy with far too much free time. 

Whenever his man would doze, Wilbur would miss the light that blossomed inside him, his smile, his laugh, his cutting words only meant to soothe, his rusty American husk, everything of him he would miss. Possibly, possibly he could forget about it all, him, his smile, his laugh, his cutting words only meant to soothe, his rusty American husk, anything to forget.

_Nine million people._  
_I always seem to add them up._

It was hard to cherish all of the memories one had with another, even the memorable ones would seem hazy and unimportant when the one you cherish sleeps right before you, holding onto the pillow your head had rest on, sleepless staring to the ceiling for hours, in memory and place of you yourself. Wilbur was one to hold photographs and videos over everything, holding his memories close to his heart, yet, his beloved, the man sleeping in his bed with only tranquility, was close to the opposite. He had always persisted in such strong passion that have he ever forget Wilbur, he would simply remember him once again the moment he heard the tune Wilbur would hum in his calm. That of which only remembered by his bed stricken man’s smile, his head resting on Wilbur’s shoulder as he played the only tune that he could think in such a flustered haze.

Memories were fuzzy now, all but the ones with his man. He had hoped, oh so dearly as he clicked open the leather latches of his suitcase, that he could replace memories of his love with the memories he'd lost to him, as, he was better kept in a picture frame, where Wilbur couldn't bitter such a sweet thing. Where he couldn't lather poison into something so clean.

_I could go away._  
_I could pack my things and be gone before you wake._

Wilbur stared down to the suitcase that now lie wide open against the sullen carpet of his flat. He stared for what felt like years before he was clawed from his trance, digging around his closet for sweatshirts, sweatpants, basketball shorts, clothes, really. After a long moment of the sounds of his love's slow deep tranquil breaths and early, early dawn chirps, he noticed, shifting his gaze to his man. With a fond smile, he'd noticed, his man was wearing his favorite sweater, he offered a sad smile once more, letting a small sliver of an airy chuckle trickle from his throat, maybe that was for the best. 

_You know I've tried hard to love me, too._  
_It always seems to fall in, though._

Wilbur would never understand the love his love would offer to him, would give him so lovingly, with love so strong it could harshly be considered love from how lovely it was. He and his man had been the epiphany of love ever since they first met, they met on some stream, on some server, but what did those memories bother now? Who were they to remember when his love slept in his bed right before him? Or, what used to be his, at least. 

_Maybe one day I'll live in La Jolla._  
_...drinking cocktails out over the water._

"Wilbur?" Quiet, groggy, peaceful, the sound of ~~Schlatt's~~ his lover's voice, he would feel his stomach lurch at his voice, he sounded so peaceful, so gentle, "Suitcase..? Man, where are you off to..? So early?" His man would grumble his tired grumble, his tired grumble Wilbur had come accustom to, fond of, sickeningly fond of. Wilbur would return to bed, his touch a ghost of what ~~Schlatt~~ his paramour could only plead for it to be once more, reaching for him groggily, cheeks flushed in his wake as the sun would rise, gently, gently.

Wilbur would grin, and he couldn't help the sorrow that would paint it, "I have a meeting outside of town." He would excuse his leavings, "In London." He peppered a kiss to his beloved's brow, "Only a few days." His beloved would make a face, a face they both knew well, a face Wilbur pretended did not stain his mind with memories of holding his dear on their shared balcony, of sharing this bed together, of sharing each other and their souls together, in sharing their love.

Silence hollowed the room, Wilbur would hold his worshipped, hold him dear, hold him until the sun would rise, "The sun's just rising..." ~~Schlatt~~ his man would plea, his voice weak, he knew, they both knew, no meetings were to be called for London, none the two of them had any know of, "...Come back to bed, Wil'." He would murmur, his voice frail, Wilbur would only squeeze his hand, his efforts dainty.

_My own personal sunset._  
_To give each day it's own diploma._

Wilbur would press their foreheads together now, peppering sweet nothings of his love to his beloved, "Shh, I know." He ran a hand through ~~Schlatt's~~ his adored's hair, offering a fond, faux smile, one that spoke of grief, one that spoke of far to many sufferings to name, "I'll be back before you know it, okay?" ~~Schlatt~~ his darling would tug his sleeve, "Okay?" A tug of the hand, a tug of the hand. No tugs would return, only one squeeze, one begging silently for Wilbur's return, though they seemed to both be too frail to receive each other's vocally mute, mentally screaming thoughts as they used to, solemn touches would simply never be enough, not when Wilbur was off, maybe to La Jolla, maybe to the Caribbeans, who knew? Who knew as long as it kept him from the inevitable fate that whisked his breath away and faltered his love, faltered him from sharing the same proximity of his dear, his ~~Schlatt~~ man.

_And you know it's funny._  
_Amid my backseat taxi jaunts_

"...Wilbur where are you off to." He perplexed again, he knew, sounded weak, far too weak for Wilbur to dare look him in the eyes, "As long as you come back to bed..." His sentence seemed to stroll from his lips. He closed his eyes again, slowly, slowly, slowly. Achingly slow. 

He grimaced kindly, "...I have a meeting in London, my love." he would crow, his voice brittle, his voice staining the daylight as it would rise, "Go back to sleep, my love. I won't be long." He would swear, though his swears would always dry empty. One last kiss, one more to seal the air around them, the thoughts swirling their minds, the knowing forefront that shall no longer front as Wilbur would set off for his flight, one last phantom of a kiss before he was gone.

"I love you." He would murmur, a sad smile would greet ~~Schlatt's~~ his love's sullen words, a sorrowful curl of lips that only entailed despair, one that ~~Schlatt~~ his dear had hoped to never witness, not on his worshipped, not on Wilbur.

_...and I'm trying to ignore the skyline._  


As he would hurl his luggage into the taxi, he would run his thumb pad over the embroidery of his name, of the keychains he had owned, the ones that were not his own, not his but his paramour who slept peacefully, who slumbered in tranquil, trusting his dearest's return, oh how bitter, how sour the thought would sting Wilbur as he shuffled into the backseat, his stomach hollow. He remembered the words his love would praise him with, the mountains of poems that were their love, the songs Wilbur would right of their memory, and he locked it away, deep, deep into a chamber which to never be awakened once more, not whilst his love carried the burden of some English boy with far too much free time's memory.

_...so I don't figure out where you..._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and positive comments are very appreciated!
> 
> It is painfully obvious how inspired this 'fic is by this one, this 'fic makes me so happy, and I assure you it's one of the best you'll ever read, plus it's a rarepair. I really, really recommend you read it, even if you already have before, this work deserves so, so much support, as it is so very lovely!
> 
> I hope this isn't too horrid, as it's my first attempt at pure angst, but I'm working on the other two chapters, and will release them as I finish them! Also, if you haven't already, I recommend you listen to the three songs these chapters will be based around, and the lyrics that are in them, especially whilst reading, as Wilbur sets the tone in these songs better than I ever could through words!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and positive comments are very appreciated!
> 
> I've re-listened to Wilbur's album at least a million times, honestly his music shatters my entire heart and pulls feelings out of me I didn't know I could have. It's so beautiful, and his voice just makes it all the better. It always puts me in this sad writing mood, so this short little three parter, that you sort of have to dissect just a little, came from that little mood. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Here is the link to all of the songs used in this 'fic, that I very, very, very, much recommend even if you've already listened to them! [La Jolla](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvA6BbgjfGA), [Your Sister Was Right](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7JrCUuEJPU), [I'm Sorry Boris](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWJBSqKJmAg).


End file.
